Murder in the first
by irnan
Summary: ...suspected murderer Dean Winchester was shot dead at the home of his latest victim... says the newsreader, and suddenly you can't remember how to breathe. - coda to "Skin"


_How about I start __publishing__ my bank statements__ to convince you I'm not making money here? __I hate to have to look at them, they're pitiful._

_AN: My first John POV! And damn, it was difficult. Hope you like it._

**Murder in the first**

When you see the news report, you're over the other side of the state, holed up in a scruffy motel room trying once again to find a pattern in the attacks of the demon you're hunting. The TV is on in the background just to kill the awful, empty silence that's surrounded you ever since you sent Dean to New Orleans.

Then the newsreader's words brand themselves into your mind and punch a hole in your stomach.

_…suspected murderer Dean Winchester was shot dead by police at the home of his latest victim…_

You don't hear anymore. Your brain has just shut down. You can't even move; it takes all your concentration to keep breathing. In, out. In, out. The only coherent thought in your head is _Mary, I'm so sorry._

Then all the air whooshes back into your lungs, and you give a sudden shaking laugh. It's not possible. It's just not. Dean didn't, couldn't, murder anybody, you know that in your very bones. Therefore, the rest of the report is wrong too. Of course he's not dead. He can't be dead. He's better than that, too good to be shot by the police. Now that would be an embarrassing way to go for a hunter like Dean.

The initial shock of the news report has worn off, and you're sure you're right. You'd know, you would have known long before the news came on, if your handsome laughing son were gone, if Mary's darling boy were dead.

Because she would be down here already, making your life a living hell. Her tongue-lashings could be pretty brutal. She used to tease you that Dean and Sammy were far more important to her than you, and you'd always tell her you wouldn't have it any other way.

Dear God, Sammy. Please, don't let him have seen the news, don't let him believe his brother is dead. The thought of your youngest going through that pain, no matter how temporary, tears at you.

You need to get to St. Louis, now, and find out what the hell's happened.

And what's he doing there, anyway? You'd expected him to head for Caleb's or maybe Jim's place after the Colorado hunt, thought he'd wait somewhere _safe_ for you to contact him again. Didn't you leave him a voicemail telling him in no uncertain terms that you were all in danger, and to be careful?

Oh, come _on_, Winchester. Call him your boy all you like, but he's a man now, twenty-six years old, and just because he still takes your orders doesn't mean he can't think for himself.

Actually, you're kinda proud he didn't sit around waiting on your orders to go and help people. Of all the hunters you know, Dean is the only one who's always carried a sense of purpose with him that went beyond revenge or anger or the empty determination to kill as many of the evil bastards as he could. Underlying his every move was the calm conviction that he was doing this job because it was worth it, because it was the _right thing to do._

Sometimes you think he's the only hunter you know who lives this life for the right reasons.

When you reach St. Louis in the early morning of the next day, you leave the too-conspicuous truck at the motel, and walk to the victim's house – a Rebecca Warren. And there you find a scene that finally lays all your ruthlessly suppressed fears and doubts to rest.

The Impala is sitting outside the house – well, mansion – sleek and shiny black, and Dean, _thank you God,_ Dean is leaning over a map on the hood. Same scuffed boots, same frayed jeans, mussed dirty blonde hair, clean-shaven for once. The sunlight glints on his gold amulet, and his green eyes, the same shade and shape as Mary's, are narrowed as he traces a route on the map.

The front door opens, and both you and Dean look round. A blonde girl emerges, and you barely have a second to think _of course, a pretty blonde just had to be involved _before, to your utter jaw-dropping surprise, Sam follows her out.

Sam! Here, with Dean? What the hell? The last time you... dropped in on him... was just before heading down to Jericho to look into those disappearances. You'd spotted him having coffee with a bunch of friends – they'd all looked exhausted, but it was exam time, so that hadn't worried you too much. He'd seemed happy, on the whole, like he always had at Stanford. So why was he on the road with Dean?

Not to mention looking like he'd just gone ten rounds with a block of cement.

The girl – Rebecca Warren, probably – didn't look much better, actually.

The two of them stand talking for a few minutes, before they hug, and she goes back inside, waving to Dean. As Sam walks over to his brother, it's almost too much. Keeping your emotions on a tight rein has become frighteningly easy over the years – but not right now. Now you're having _trouble_ standing still, not going over to them, not hugging Dean, not apologising to Sammy the way you should have years ago.

But the reason you left in the first place was to keep them safe, to keep them away from this hunt. To ensure they wouldn't be caught up in the demon attacks that have been dogging your footsteps almost from the minute you left Jericho. You've taken every precaution you can, but you know the next attack could well be the last one, and you'll be damned before you let the boys get involved in anything this dangerous.

So you stay, stand still, keep out of sight, and eavesdrop shamelessly.

"Cops are blamin' this Dean Winchester guy for Emily's murder," Sam's saying. "They found the murder weapon in the guy's lair, Zach's clothes, stained with her blood… now they're thinking maybe the security tape_ was_ tampered with. Yea, Becca says Zach'll be free soon."

Dean glares at him, looking torn between relief and irritation. So who – or, more likely, what – did commit the murder?

But before you've puzzled over that for long, Sam says, as his brother is making to get into the car, "Dude – you should call Dad."

Dean frowns. "I've been calling Dad for months, Sam," he says sharply. "How many times have you called him since Jess? And neither of us have ever gotten an answer, in case you haven't noticed."

He sounds almost… bitter. New one for Dean, as far as you know.

You really need to check that voicemail account thing more often. Who is Jess? And what happened with her to make Sam grimace slightly and turn away like that?

Then he shrugs. "I mean, you know, after… well, the news reports and everything."

"What about 'em?" Dean's being deliberately obtuse and annoying. He's wearing his go-away-and-leave-me-alone look.

You never did figure out if Sammy really couldn't see it or if he just liked to ignore it.

"Look, man," he's saying now, "I just think – you could at least let him know you're still alive. If I'd seen that report at Stanford-"

He leaves the sentence trailing for dramatic effect, and Dean's glare intensifies, if that were even possible. Then he sighs, hauls his cell out of his jacket pocket and dials your number.

After the message tone, he says, "Dad – just to let you know the news reports are bull, OK? I'm alive, and I didn't kill anyone. Besides, if it had been me, they sure as hell wouldn't be able to prove it," he adds, with one of those sudden returns of good humour and banishing of all darkness that's so characteristically _Dean_, and Sam groans.

"Yeah, I bet that'll reassure him," he says.

Dean smirks. "Get in the car, Sammy," he tells him and slams his own door shut.

Watching the Impala disappear around the corner, you wonder – not for the first time – if maybe this brilliant plan of yours is a mistake. If you should just turn your phone on, and call them back…

No. No, absolutely not. Safety first, family row later. You can't have one if they're dead.

But maybe you should just head on up the drive, and ask Rebecca Warren how she knows Sam, and who this Jess girl is.


End file.
